


The cracks begin to show

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Crack Pairing, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 09:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barbrey thinks that there's more to Alayne Stone than Petyr lets on. </p><p>Birthday present for Marquise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The cracks begin to show

She likes to watch Petyr as he sits with Alayne in the evenings. Every gesture, every look speaks volumes, about what Barbrey does not yet know, but there is something that digs at her, something that does not sit quite right with her about her new alliance and his daughter. Perhaps it is the ironic tone with which she addresses him, as if the word “Father” causes her tongue to stick in her mouth. Or perhaps it is the look that he gives the girl when he thinks that no one is watching, something between admiration and desire. 

Barbrey isn’t sure which troubles her more. But she keeps silent. After all, she has seen worse, and has dirtied her hands for worse. 

One night he comes to her, stumbling drunk, and she permits it even though she chokes back a laugh to see such weakness. Petyr believes himself to be so cautious, and such reckless abandon amuses her, and to her strange delight, arouses her. Knowing that she is bound tightly, her smiles calculated, her caresses mechanical, while he unravels in her bed, in the dark, is her reward for tolerating the secrets that he whispers with his bastard child, for her long wasted years, for her life dwindled away to nothing save bitterness and calculation. 

He fumbles with her gown, and Barbrey sits quietly, permissively, as he tears the fragile fastenings, as his hands clumsily scrape her flesh, icy now that the fire has gone out. As his lips graze her throat, as his beard scrapes her skin, she clutches him, drawing Petyr’s slight body close, pinning him to her so that he is held fast. Although he does not struggle, there is a tight hitch to his breath that was not there before. 

“She’s quite a clever girl,” Barbrey whispers, her voice soothing. 

“Who,” he mumbles, nuzzling his head against her breasts. 

“Your Alayne.” She caresses the name, giving it the same sardonic cast as the girl’s “Father,” drawing it out with relish. 

“Her mother’s daughter,” he says, and moans softly as Barbrey reaches for him, pulling down his breeches, her clever hands making short work of his clothing.

“But not her father’s,” Barbrey says darkly, her voice thick, and as she bites her lip, as her hands pleasure him, she sees how her words pain him, how he flinches, just slightly, the drink betraying his exquisite mask, and it thrills her more than any kiss, any caress, ever could.


End file.
